Her breath swung open like a broken shell:

I do not want the curious stranger
Staring, the smell of flame brought down

I know what you search, going further
Than promised, your refusal to look up
As if something might never be found;

To enter the field without speaking
Of the bad years is to trust what is

The vegan gourmet will have his way. Lamb chops
will soon be relegated to quaint cabins in the olden days.
The ballooning business of burgers, too, will change,

Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts

That is why uprooted fields meandered in the midst of roads

Sound a brake followed nothing it’s flower withers between ninety-two cobblestones.

the glance is filtered in the plaited reflection of glass buildings

Those lolling china heads and rag-stuffed arms
will never love us in return, said Rilke,
whose mother dressed him like a girl, whose charms